(I've told you before, I'm sure, but this blog is old and getting quite forgetful, that when my sister was about four and poorly she said forlornly to my mother "I'm a mass of corruption", which gives a sense of the kind of household we lived in. Talking of which, Prog Rock rang tonight to talk about Anne Enright, without any kind of introductory preamble. I took advantage of his call to ask him why he had sent me some kind of complex cartoon book about neuroscience for hippies. That may be a misdescription, but it is terribly odd, look:
There are pages of this kind of stuff.
He told me, with pleasing inevitability, that he had read about it in Le Monde Diplomatique and muttered something about soixante-huitards. When I said I had flicked through and didn't understand a shred of it, he said that was probably because "You're all reified, man", then he laughed uproariously. This is entirely typical of our exchanges. )
So: corruption. Masses of it. I'll need unicorn serum and holy water soon. Where do you get unicorn serum in this town, eh? I should stick that on an expat discussion board right now.
The tally of shame:
Fruit: a bad supermarket mango
Vegetables: lots of salad. An avocado. Some red pepper even. JESUS, why don't I look dewy yet?
Adventures in beauty: none, except the ongoing attempts to cure my fingerclaw grossness.
Fluids: Weak grenadine, small beaker of terrible wine, tea. Located Rooibos tea in supermarket, so hydration may recommence.
Small compensations for working this Saturday: a scoop of Capoue salted caramel ice cream. The arrival of this book. Several episodes of 30 Rock. Oh! And overhearing the man in the hippy shop - I bought omega oils, god help me, and a tiramisu, but it's probably made with oat cream and carob - say that today someone asked him if he stocked 'oeufs de chèvre'. That's goat's eggs.
Maybe that's what's missing from my regime?